Living in Suburbia
by Buttons14
Summary: Think the suburbs are easier than the city life? After a drug bust in an average home people open their eyes to the harsh reality of suburbia. Takes place in the early 1940’s.FINAL CHAPTER POSTED!
1. The House Down the Street

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic. Living in Suburbia 

A/n: This is inspired by a recent drug bust down the street from my house. It's one of my first…is my first non-slash, non-song fic fiction. Please read and review!

**Summary: **Think the suburbs are easier than the city life? After a drug bust in an average home people open their eyes to the harsh reality of suburbia. Takes place in the early 1940's.

**Genre: **Mystery/Drama

**Rating:** PG-13 (subject to change)

**Starring:** Jack Sullivan, James 'Racetrack' Higgins, Nathaniel 'Kid Blink' O'Connor, Philip 'Skittery' Bardot, Patrick 'Spot' Conlon, Loretta Higgins, Juliana Sullivan, Marguerite O'Connor, Scarlet Bardot, Sue-Ellen Conlon, Cal Sullivan, Geoffrey Higgins, Jeremy Conlon, Gerard Bardot, Richard 'Snipeshooter' Conlon (Starring roles subject to change by chapter) ****

**Chapter 1: Just Down the Street**

—Racetrack's PoV—

Lindale has always been a quiet, simple town, filled with quiet, simple people. Not to say that we were _simple_ as in slow, in fact, Darrell Marshall just got his doctors in advanced physics, a feat that the entire town was proud of.

You see, in a small suburb like Lindale everybody knows everyone's business. In Lindale, women feel no shame in basking out in the sun on hot days, wearing nothing but their underwear and a straw hat. Lindale is the type of town you will always be proud to say you were from, being one of the best places to live in the whole state of New Hampshire.

In Lindale the ladies in my neighbourhood meet every Sunday afternoon after church for lemonade and biscuits. Last Sunday it was my mother, Loretta Higgins' turn to host. She and her four closest friends, Juliana Sullivan, Marguerite O'Connor, Scarlet Bardot and Sue-Ellen Conlon gathered on the veranda where a lazy breeze was drifting over them, keeping them from frying and collapsing in the heat.

It was here that the disruption was first observed.

I was in my room, lying on my bed and listening to the conversation below. Having thrust all the windows open it was near impossible not to hear them cackling outside. Such is a fact I introduce, as not to be accused of eavesdropping.

"Yes, Jack is ready for Brown next fall. He's already been accepted ad all," boasted Juliana to the others. Jack, the oldest out of their sons, was due for college after summer, which was approaching rapidly seeing as there was only a week until summer holidays.

"Nathaniel finished first in his track meet on Friday. Amazing, considering his…disability," countered Marguerite. Her son, Nathaniel, was headed for grade twelve next year and was born blind in one eye, leaving it glassy and pale. Still, he was the fastest 100m runner Lindale Secondary had ever seen.

"Now, now ladies. Lets' not argue. It's much too hot for that. Just relax and enjoy your lemonade." Sue-Ellen's peaceful disposition would lead anyone to believe that she hadn't spawned little Patrick Conlon. Even though he was only a sophomore last year, he had already earned a reputation as a troublemaker and a hotheaded prat.

"I agree, there's no point in arguing over out sons. Besides, your boys are no competition for my Philip." Out of all the mothers, Scarlet was my favourite. She was a joker; she was the one who kept these meetings alive. Her boy, Philip, was constantly serious and agitated. Never accuse Philip of anything id you know what's good for you.

And so, for several minutes, the conversation carried on like this. Topic drifted from their sons to city events, and back to us again.

"What in heavens name? Why is the sheriff out? Workin' on a Sunday?" commented my mother quite abruptly, thus causing my to believe that the sheriff had entered the scene. I rose to my windowsill to watch the proceedings below.

Dow the road is the old McKenzie house. It has detailed wooden doors, window shutters, and balconies. It was bought over half a year ago, an even that made the entire town buzz for a while. I don't think anyone in Lindale had ever met the occupants of that house.

The sheriff broke down the door, shouted a bit, cussed a string, and proceeded to bring out several potted plants. The origin or type of these plants was a mystery to me. The sheriff, however, seemed mighty concerned and loaded a few of them into his squad car.

==

"They're marijuana, you idiot," said Jack when I told him. We were all sitting in the family room before Sunday dinner while I told them about what I saw.

Philip, Nathaniel and Patrick all nodded in agreement.

I, being the youngest (beating Patrick by only two weeks) felt very stupid and childlike compared to them, seeing as I don't know this.

Jack sat by the window and lit a cigarette. "We've never had drugs much at school before though, have we?"

We all confirmed that we hadn't, leading us to wonder where the unknown owners of the old McKenzie place peddled their goods.

"Have any of you ever…?" I asked, knowing they knew exactly what I meant.

The only one to admit to such a thing was Jack, who seems to have done everything in his life. "Only once though," he said defensively. "It felt really weird and definitely _not_ worth the money."

I take this into consideration. Sure, I enjoy the occasional cigar, but not I definitely plan to never smoke weed.

"It's damn sweltering," complains Philip, proving why he's earned his nickname, Skittery. He never sits still and has constant mood swings. Rarely do his comments ever relate to the topic at hand.

"What're you talking about Skittery? This is the coolest room in the house," I argue. It's true though, the windows in the living room, when open, deliver a very pleasant draft in from the lake.

Skittery glared at me, making it obvious he was displeased.

"I'm agreeing with Skittery on this one. It's boilin' in here." Jack tugged at his collar to prove how warm he really was.

"Maybe if you put out that cigarette," I countered, worrying that the curtains would reek of tobacco smoke in no time.

Jack tapped the end's ashes into the bushes below the sill and ignored me.

Nathaniel, who had yet to say anything, turned to Patrick and asked, "Where's your brother?"

Patrick blinked a few times. "Who? You mean Alex? He's…uh…busy."

Patrick's brother, otherwise known as Specs, has been missing form the Sunday dinner scene since early March. Every day Nathaniel asks Patrick, and every time he receives the same alibi.

"He's just busy. Real busy with school and everything. He'll be here next week."

A very weak excuse, considering none of us have seen the senior in the halls. Not even Jack, who used to be best friends wit him.

I wonder what the excuse will be next week, seeing as school will be officially out by then.

My mother calls us for dinner and we congregate in the dining room where our fathers seemed to be holding a similar conversation as the one we just had.

My father, Geoffrey Higgins, is seated at the head of the table. He is very distinguished looking, clad in his church clothes. He's smoking a thick cigar and his blue eyes glint as we enter the room. Such eyes have been passed on to my sister, Jocelyn, leaving me with my mother's dull brown ones.

"Boys, take a seat, won't you?" offers my father humble, gesturing to the vast dining room table.

We are seated, each boy beside his father making for the maximum conversation, seeing as we'll ass have to talk across each other. My family likes a noisy household.

When beside him, Jack looks just like his father, Cal Sullivan. They both have the same oval head and slicked, light brown hair, the same laughing face and crooked smile.

Almost as amazing is the contrast between Skittery and his father. I've heard my mother comment many times of how she assumes Gerard Bardot is not Skittery's _real_ father. He has dark, neat hair and a piercing gaze that accompanied his thinly spectacled eyes. His was a round, short man who could be closest described as 'Humpty Dumpty'. His waist belt was done on the loosest notch, but still he complained of how his pants had shrunk. Skittery, on the other hand, it tall and lanky. He has light hair and muted green eyes. I'd guess him to be Mr Bardot's distant nephew, if I thought them to be related at all.

Patrick—better known as Spot—was between his father and younger brother. Jeremy Conlon was a small man, faintly resembling his two sons. Inherited by them as well was a cloud of confidence and better-than-thou aura that trailed after the three. Patrick's younger brother, Richard, we called Snipeshooter. He sat beside Patrick and my daddy, chewing on a chocolate cigar.

Across the table from my father are the O'Connor's. Nathaniel's family is the smallest of us all, Nathaniel being an only child and his mother being widowed.

"Well, dig in everyone!" exclaimed my mother, beaming from where she observed the table setting.

Mrs Bardot ordered another brandy. "I'm still slightly shaken from the disturbance at the McKenzie place. The sheriff used many a swears in front of ladies."

"Really? What happened Scarlet?" queried Cal from where he reached for a piece of sliced pork.

Scarlet, very happily, began the story. "The house down the street…"

**End Chapter**

A/n: How'd you like it? probably my longest first chapter ever. Review and tell me if you like it!


	2. My Brother, Specs

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic. Living in Suburbia 

**Starring:** Patrick 'Spot' Conlon, Alexander 'Specs' Conlon, Jeremy Conlon, Richard 'Snipeshooter' Conlon, Sue-Ellen Conlon (Starring roles subject to change by chapter) ****

**Chapter 2: My brother, Specs**

—Spot's PoV—

To my friends I am Spot, but in front of our parents they call me Patrick. Patrick Conlon, after my great-grandfather, who first travelled to America. He was a Fenian, a member of Irish rebels who fought against the American and Canadian governments. Ironic, really, because now my father, Jeremy Conlon, is a strong upholder of the law: a police officer.

Being a copper and all, it's no wonder that my father had heard about the bust.

"I never want you getting messed up in things like that, you hear?" he asks, though we've held this conversation many times since March when my parents send Specs off to rehab.

The sheriff says, according to my father, that Specs is the reason for the bust. It was because of Specs that the sheriff got a lead on the pusher. Unfortunately, he reached the crime scene late and missed the guilty party.

My brother, Specs, has been busted for drug possession. As a matter of fact, my father caught him and made him attend rehab.

Specs was never a straight-A student or a star athlete or one of those kids teachers praised on a regular basis, but he worked hard at everything he did and rarely got in trouble. Or at least did his best to stay out of trouble. But nobody's perfect. Saying such leads me to admit that Specs' mistake was getting caught in the act.

I think he was always careful, never slipping up or smoking a joint around the house, but instead on street corners and secluded buildings or his friend's houses.

To this day, the details of his apprehension by my father are hazy. Maybe he'd decided on a joint after he was high so he wasn't thinking straight, or perhaps he was just plain careless. So mow Specs is a mystery to the town, because my mother has forbidden anyone beyond the sheriff and the mayor to know.

Us Conlons, though crude and rough at times, are proud, honourable people.

"Not all Conlons have done right, but no matter what they did, they believed it was the best thing to do," my father told me once, a phrase that has stuck in my head until at least thus far in my life. I must admit that I thoroughly agree, but I'm still not sure what the best thing to do with my life is. I haven't really done anything significant or groundbreaking yet in my seventeen years of living. I joined Air Cadets in grade eight, but quit in grade nine because it was tremendously boring. That still is amazingly ineffectual, making no difference whatsoever in my life, let alone the lives of anyone in the world. Anyone.

Specs has changed my life and the lives of my family, but not for the better.

==

_Late January._

The coldness in the air drew us all further into our jackets and forced us to pump up the heat.

He stood by the side of the school, rubbing his hands together, trying to keep warm.

"Why don't you go inside?" I asked him, my breath hanging visible in front of me.

He shrugged, leaning against the wall, watching the yard with extensive anxiousness and conveying a very agitated manner. He smelt smoky-sweet, a disgusting, but enchantingly alluring fragrance.

"Aren't you cold?" I asked next.

He shook his head 'no', something I truly didn't believe. This was coming from the same boy who froze his butt off so badly that in elementary school he used to cry because he didn't want to go outside into the cold.

"I can't feel anything," he told me, ceasing the blowing on his hands at this point.

"Let's go inside Specs," I coaxed him, leading him gently by the arm.

He struggled a bit before slumping after me. Behind him he dropped something.

"Specs, what is that?"

"Nothing." He picked it up and rammed it back in his pockets.

"Was that a cigarette? Mama and Dad won't like you smokin'! You'd better drop it fast before they find out."

"It's not a cigarette, you moron," he grumbled, peeved that I was bossing him around.

I stopped. "What is it?"

"It's a joint," he admitted. "Marijuana."

Now, I didn't know much about drugs, but even so, the thought of weed scared me. This explained why Specs was acting so odd lately.

"Specs, you can't be—"

He turned towards me, obviously angered. He smirked. "And you're not gonna say anything, are you _Patrick_? Believe me, you don't want to."

_Behind the poorly disguised threat I knew he was pleading with me not to tell. It was an addiction, there was no way to stop; no way out. _

==

_Early March._

The fields are melting and the whole town is getting a wormy smell from all the thawing snow and ice.

Lacrosse season has started, an event Specs hasn't missed; until this year.

"Dinner time Specs!" I called up to his room.

"Alexander won't be joining us for dinner today," my father said softly from the table. "Come sit down Patrick. The food it getting cold."

I sat across from Snipeshooter, trying to ignore the empty seat beside him.

"Is Alex grounded because he didn't go out for lacrosse? Please Dad, don't be too mad at him."

He ignored me, but my mother sighed. "It's not because of lacrosse."

Snipeshooter looked up from his ham and mashed potatoes. "Specs is in trouble?" Specs never got in trouble. I argue a lot and Snipeshooter was caught stealing my father's cigar once, but Specs never got in hot water.

"In a few days Alexander will be leaving us temporarily. He'll be back in time for University next fall."

He'd been accepted to Virginia State early on a lacrosse and chemistry scholarship. Lucky, or he'd have to repeat the twelfth grade.

_The next Monday, Specs left for an out-of-county rehabilitation centre. He has yet to come back._

==

Current day: late June.

People ask about Specs daily, and each time I give them the same weak alibi; he's working on school stuff, the story of his life.

I know the lie is going to change tonight. School will be out by next Sunday, what will we tell everyone then? We need to maintain the Conlon pride.

Pride is a very delicate and dangerous thing.

**End Chapter**

((Hope you liked this chapter as much as the first one. Did I do well? Please say yes!))

**Shoutouts:**

Erin Go Bragh- it could be…what do you mean? It is!

Coin- half-way fics are awesome. They're such fun to write!

Jacky Higgins- this is one of the few stories I've written with a plot in mind before I started. I know how it's going to end now! That's a first, it's only chapter two!

C.M. Higgins- (almost dies of flattery) wow, I'm not anything special. Thanks for being so enthusiastic though.

Almatari-of-Arda- very good. Extra cookies for you!

Strawberri Shake- to be honest, I don't want to live in Lindale. It sounds like an innocent hell. What eleventh grader doesn't know what marijuana is? I'm in grade nine and I know what it is! I knew when I was in grade…five!

Dreamer110- I like you. You're so calm. Like the eye of a hurricane. Everyone's all 'I LOVE IT" and you just comment smoothly. Classy (wink) I like the mother's gossip too, I like to listen to people talk, it's entertaining.


	3. Remembrance: Articles and Papers

Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic. Living in Suburbia 

**Starring:** Jack Sullivan, David Jacobs

**Chapter 3: Articles: Remembrance & Papers**

—Jack's PoV—

It came out today. The story that finally told me the truth.

Alexander 'Specs' Conlon has been my best friend ever since we got in a fight on the playground in the first grade. A few weak punches were thrown and I fell and scraped my knees, but something about childhood disagreements creates lasting friendships.

This morning we opened the front door and found the newspaper where it was every morning, on the doorstep, folded nicely and facing on such a way that we could read the headline. It said 'Lindale Expands as Super Highway is Added'. Beneath it, slightly smaller, was a picture of the McKenzie house, accompanied by a blurb about a drug bust. It read:

_Late Sunday afternoon, Sheriff Meyers uncovered a drug house in a regular Lindale home. In the home he discovered several potted plants, later confirmed as marijuana._

_The sheriff mainly credits another officer, Jeremy Conlon, for the information that made the discovery possible. Conlon's son, Alexander, had been mixed up in drug use and allowed officers to further investigate the matter. He is currently attending rehabilitation at Wincrest County Rehab Centre._

_The perpetrator has yet to be apprehended. Anyone who has information should contact the sheriff's office in town or call an operator if you wish to remain anonymous. _

_ By: Bryan Denton_

So, Specs was into drugs. I should have figured it out and put the pieces together. He missed lacrosse tryouts, his grades were slipping and he was extremely forgetful. Then he disappeared altogether.

Grade twelve was supposed to be our year. It was supposed to be the best year of our lives, we were seniors: we ruled the school. Specs was supposed to get lacrosse captain and I was supposed to get quarterback. Instead, I got both and apparently he got a stay at Wincrest County.

I can't say he ruined my year, I still had a great time, but it probably would have been better with Specs there. At first I thought he was just distracted, but by March I figured he was avoiding me. You have to understand, we're guys. What's the point in pursuing someone when they don't want to have anything to do with you?

So, for quiet a while it was just David Jacobs and me. Not that I minded, David was a...smart guy. He's not one for fights or adventure in the extreme, unlike Specs who was up for anything. Other than that and his looks though, David and Specs were _very_ alike. They were both studious, determined, and possessed authentic common sense.

In school Specs and I were evenly matched, as well as in athletics. I took to subjects like English, Latin and History, while he excelled in Sciences, Math and Geography. The same was in sports. We both made football and lacrosse, but it was obvious I overshadowed him in football and he me in lacrosse. We were two equal, identical and amazingly unfamiliar people. Like two puzzle pieces, the same size, but from different pictures.

==

"Have you seen the paper?" David asked me on the walk to school.

I nodded and he took a moment to look respectively solemn before continuing.

"What do you think about it? did you know?"

I sighed and shook my head. "No, no one ever told me. Never thought Specs to be one to get caught up in a mess like that though."

"I know what you mean, surprised the hell out of me to read his name in the paper. What do you think'll happen to his Virginia State scholarship? Think he'll still have it?" David asked, introducing an aspect I hadn't yet pondered. What would become of the scholarship the Conlons had been so proud of? Would it just, all of a sudden, be withdrawn, leaving Specs stranded in an ocean without a raft?

I shrugged. "I don't know."

David and I will both be going to Brown next year. His mother is very proud of him, being the first child from Lindale to get an educational scholarship since Terrence Robinson in 1936. I got in on a football scholarship, and they even promised me a spot on the team if I kept my grades up.

"That'd be an awful blow to his family, wouldn't it? think the Conlons could afford to send all three of their boys off to college without it?"

I shrugged again, slightly uncomfortable, as always, with the topic of financial well-being. Why bother discussing a family's fortune? The Conlons are nice, bright people, that's all I worry about.

"_Personality_ won't get you anywhere in life. Don't go thinking good ol' Shirley Temple is all cuteness and smiles. I'm sure she's left a few in her path on the way to the top." My mother has always been amazingly driven and solely focused on success. My father, though more laid back, is also driven and determined on accomplishing his goals.

"You're stubborn," Geoffrey Higgins accused him once.

To this he laughed heartily and disagreed. "Geoff, there's a small difference between being stubborn and being determined. I, my friend, and the latter."

Unlike traditional characteristics of the Conlon clan, Specs was not one to be stubborn and hot headed. At times, in fact, he was a tad of a pushover.

Maybe his downfall was the lack of this very characteristic.

**[End Chapter]**

OK people. The next chapter is out! Sorry I took so long, I was away. Hopefully you liked this chapter as much as the last two. Please review with suggestions, feedback or just happy, loving comments!

Oh, someone moved into the drug house! It was on the market for almost a year and SOMEONE MOVED IN!!! Happy day!

**Shoutouts:**

Erin Go Bragh- (sticks out tongue in disgust) I hate mashed potatoes. Yuck. And ANYONE could be on drugs.

Icanreadncount- It doesn't matter to me why you like it. I just like your reviews. And I'm sure I like you too…

Almatari-of-Arda- did you know that The Stepford Wives in Italy is 'La Donna Perfetta'? I think it means 'The Perfect Women' or something like that.

Strawberri Shake- Air Cadets is thins thing where you fly model airplanes all day. I know a couple of guys who were in it and they both dropped out after one year. It's murderously boring. Lacrosse is the national sport of Canada.

Coin- I had to include the pride thing. Spot seems like a proud person and therefore his family must be as well.

Jacky Higgins- my muses are more hard-working than I am. They tell me to stay on task and urge me to have a plot in mind. I don't listen as much as I should.

Peter!Muse: DAMN RIGHT!!!

Charlie!Muse: Listen to us more!!! You'll get something done for once.

Oh shut up the both of you.

Dreamer110- wow, you said 'good' four times in that three-line review. That means it must have been…good.


	4. Welcome to Wincrest

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic. Living in Suburbia 

**Starring:** Patrick 'Spot' Conlon, Richard 'Snipeshooter' Conlon, Sue-Ellen Conlon, Alexander 'Specs' Conlon, John 'Dutchy' Dutchyshen

**Chapter 4: Welcome to Wincrest**

—Spot's PoV—

Monday morning at my house was chaotic.

Though she rarely yells, everyone makes exceptions. From the minute Snipeshooter and I stumbled out of bed and to the breakfast table Mother was all over us.

"Did you tell your friends? You told them, didn't you?" she accused, brandishing something papery at us.

Snipeshooter and I both confirmed to doing no such thing, leading her with only one person.

"Jeremy Michael Abbot Conlon! How _dare_ you allow the sheriff to mention Alexander in the paper? You know we're to keep this all in the family!"

Our father, like us, was confused. My mother thrust the paper at him and I watched him read, his eyes growing larger with every line.

"Sue-Ellen, I swear I gave no say in putting our boy in the paper."

Her face grew red and she stormed to the door. "Just you wait until I get my hands on Sheriff Meyers! That man…" she jerked the door open and stormed down the front walk.

"Mama," I chased after her. "Mama, come back inside. I'll make you a cup of tea."

Reluctantly she turned to come in. Snipeshooter hurried to put on the kettle.

"Just relax," I told her. "I have to get to school now."

She grabbed my arm. "Oh no you don't. We're visiting Alexander today."

==

Wincrest County Rehabilitation Centre is a large, white stone building. The driveway leading to it is long and red-bricked. Along this driveway, as well as the perimeter of the building and the yard, are hundreds of clean shrubs, all cropped to similarity and indistinction. It looked more like a swanky country club of a large private boarding school. Instead, behind those walls were the country's richest and most messed up children.

The front foyer of Wincrest is very typical, considering the exterior. Upon entering I noticed how spectacularly clean it was, full of white furniture and walls. The only thing not white were the full, green potted plants and the black check-in desk. My mother spoke to the woman behind the desk and Snipeshooter sat delicately on a stark white couch.

"Come on boys," calls my mother after a moment, before following another woman through a metal door and down a long white tiled hall. Some of the doors were open, showing off their sleeping occupants or unmade beds. Most of them had their windows open, allowing a breeze in.

"His room is number sixty-two," the woman told us, gesturing to the room across the hall. Like many of the others his door was wide open.

"Mama?" he saw us and backed up slightly into his room. "Spot? Snipeshooter?"

Snipeshooter ran up to him and hugged him. "I missed you Specs."

Specs stiffened and answered robotically. "Missed you too Snipes."

"How are you Alex?" Mama asked him, not moving from her spot in the hall.

"Do you...want to come in?"

We entered his room, which was plain and sparse in decoration. Against two of the walls were twin-sized beds, similarly made, with white comforters, blue and white striped sheets, and a single, smooth white pillow. The only difference was on one of the beds a yellowy-blonde boy sat, watching us lazily. Above his head, on the ceiling, was a poster of a model wearing a bathing suit.

Specs took off his glasses and cleaned then jerkily. His breathing sounded heavy, but so did mine. Maybe this building made people feel nervous, it was so white.

"This is John Dutchyshen. John, this is my family, my mom, Patrick and Richard."

Other than being very blonde, John was extremely pale and had dark, almost purple shadows beneath his eyes. He was slumped over in his bed, miserable and gloomy in a sense of the extreme. Contrary to his obvious mood, he wore all white, as if to blend in with his surroundings. A depressed chameleon.

Our attention was ripped from this strange boy by Specs speaking again.

"Why…" he swallowed and started again, rubbing his palms together in a panicked manner. "Why are you here?"

It was a completely relevant question, seeing as Snipeshooter and I hadn't visited his since his stay began, the same I suspect of our parents.

My mother handed Specs a clipping on the article. "Sweetheart, have you read the paper today?" she asked.

Specs shook his head dumbly and read the article silently. I couldn't help but notice a slight twitch in his hands.

He didn't say anything when he was done; he just folded it and handed it back to my mother.

"I don't know what's going on with the scholarship. I hope they didn't read this." My mother gazed at Specs sadly, wishing he would comprehend all of this properly.

"Scholarship, eh? Aren't we a smart one? Got a fuckin' scholarship. Alex, why didn't you tell me what a damn smartass you are?" Dutchy spoke for the first time. Though his speech was quiet, it was also slurred and negative sounding.

Specs looked away and ignored him.

==

"What's up with your roommate?" I asked Specs before we left.

Specs' fingers twitched again and answered, though failing to meet my eye in the process. "He was…uh…loaded on anti-depressants. His…um…his friend's father was a…um…pharmacist and they'd…uh…swipe anti-depressants to get a, uh, y'know, buzz. Dutchy, he—he took so many that they have to…uh…ease him off or he'll—he'll collapse."

I looked at Specs. He wasn't nearly as big as I remembered. He was taller than me, sure, but he wasn't as _big_. He looked and sounded small. He was weak and feeble, not like my big brother. "How are…how are you?"

"I'm…I'm good," he assured me, though not very convincingly. ""Being clean is—is stressful. Surreal and…uh…" he trailed off. He wasn't making sense.

"And what?"

"And I'm…I'm glad you came to see me." It was the first thing he's said without a question in his voice of a stutter in the phrase.

Specs is still sick and he's not the way he's been most of my childhood. Beneath the once calm, collected exterior of Alexander Conlon is a small boy, begging his little brother to make everything better.

How do you fix a broken family?

**[End Chapter]**

We-ll! That's another chapter in the book. What do you think of the portrayal of Dutchy? I tried my hardest to make him come off nervous and panicky. He'd probably be insecure. OK, just review now. Thanks!

**Shoutous:**

C.M Higgins—I say 'ew' top anyone on drugs. It makes you braindead and smelly.

Almatari-of-Arda—I don't think it translates directly (in fact, I'm positive of it) but it's like…the equivalent. It makes sense with the movie.

Jacky Higgins—don't worry, I forgot if you told me too.

Dreamer110—I like how you seem to like the endings to my chapters. I try to write them to leave an impression. Like each chapter is a mini-story.

Icanreadncount—no one thinks I look like Shirley 'cause…I don't. At all. Why does everyone seem to do Newsie related stuff? All I do Newsie related is obsess! And…yeah, that's it. The people across the street are…I haven't talked to them. I know this sounds racist, but they're some of the only black families on my street. I don't have anything against black people, one of my best friends is and I'm mixed, but my part of town is very…white. Where I go to school, however, it's very ethnic. Ok, off topic there.


	5. Hated Luxeries

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.

**Living in Suburbia **

**Starring:** Patrick 'Spot' Conlon, Sue-Ellen Conlon, Christophe 'Itey' Tadesco, James 'Racetrack' Higgins, Jonathan Glass

**Chapter 5: Hated Luxuries**

—General PoV—

Rarely do people use phones in Lindale, seeing as they are a luxury of sorts. There will usually be one to share amongst several houses. Should someone pick up the phone and not be the person desired to the caller, they run and fetch whomever it is for.

After arriving from Wincrest County the Conlons tried their best to ease back into daily routine. Sue-Ellen fixed dinner, Jeremy smoked his pipe and listened to a baseball game on the radio, Snipeshooter sprawled on the living room rug, crashing toy cars together and such, and Spot ran over to the Higgins' house to ask Racetrack about homework.

Jeremy Conlon doesn't ask about the family's meeting with his eldest son, nor do any of them speak of it. Some things are best not discussed.

Sue-Ellen rushes to the door at the sound of the bell. Standing behind the mesh screen is Christophe Tadesco, Racetrack's cousin and best friend, so, by association, Spot's best friend as well.

"Hello ma'am. There's a call for you on the telephone."

Sue-Ellen, very surprised about a call being for her, picks up the phone.

"Hello, Conlon residence. Very sorry for keeping you waiting."

"Yes. Mrs Conlon, I presume? This is Jonathan Glass, Virginia State University executive."

Sue-Ellen drew in her breath sharply and Mr Glass continued.

"I am calling to inform you of our awareness of your son's recent…appearance in the newspaper. I also must tell you that his full scholarship is now on suspension. Here at Virginia State we will be keeping an eye out for further public information about your son. This is your first and final warning." Mr Glass cleared his throat, as if prompting Sue-Ellen to speak.

"We will be very careful sir. I apologize for any difficulties this may have caused your offices."

Sue-Ellen has always been the original courteous housewife.

"I'll be in contact. Good day ma'am." He hung up.

"Thank you," whispered Sue-Ellen scornfully into the dead receiver.

==

Across the street Christophe Tadesco had yet to hang up the phone. He, his cousin and their best friend gathered around the receiver, listening to the conversation. Christophe kept his hand firmly pressed against the mouthpiece, as not to be heard. Still, the three dared not breathe too loudly.

When Mrs Conlon hung up the boys collapsed into a pile on the floor, staring at each other.

"So…uh…" Racetrack sighed loudly. "What do you think is going to happen with your brother?"

Spot shrugged and didn't answer.

"Itey, doesn't Mitch go to Virginia State?" Racetrack asked Christophe next, speaking of his other cousin, Mitchell Tadesco.

Itey nodded.

"How strict are they there? Do you really think they'd kick Specs out?"

Itey didn't answer for a few seconds. "I'm not sure, but why would they bother calling if they weren't serious? Seems like a waste of time for such a high executive."

Spot shrugged again. He'd just been coming to get his homework. He knew Racetrack would be at Itey's house and went there instead, even though he knew his parents didn't approve of Itey's, who had made their fortune in the oddest way: by winning it.

"If a man hasn't worked for his pay then he is a lazy pig who is no better then those who live in poverty." Discrimination between living classes was present everywhere in Lindale. The rich only socialized with the rich and the same went for the poor. Never should the line be crossed.

However, Spot found the entire situation hypocritical, seeing as his family would only live in this part of town so long as his father was employed as one of the three deputies with the city. It also explained the availability of money for Specs' treatment. In exchange for information of the drugs' whereabouts the city paid for sessions at the best rehabilitation in the country: Wincrest.

Spot left the Tadesco's lottery-bought estate and walked back to his own red brick, white-shuttered home.

There was only one way to keep his brother's name out of the paper: stop investigation on the case. How? Catch the perpetrator as fast as possible.

**End Chapter**

Ah, see the plot building up? Good, 'cause I know where it's going! For once my fiction doesn't lack a storyline! Anyways, I just hope Spot doesn't get in trouble or anything. Y'know, I hope he doesn't do anything rash. (I never say 'rash'!)

**Shoutouts:**

Erin Go Bragh—(sigh) Queen! And no, sorry, there's nothing going on between Specs and Dutchy. Unfortunately this is a slash-free story.

C.M. Higgins—once again, sorry, no. Specs and Dutchy are just roommates. There is to be no slash in this story, though I love it…

Dreamer110—thanks very much! I don't know anyone coming off drugs so I didn't know exactly how to make them act.

Cady Galty—I have never seen Joe vs. the Volcano. And I'm sorry that the chapter ending was sad, but it had to set a mood of sorts.


	6. I'm a Newspaper Man

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.

**Living in Suburbia **

**Starring: **Bryan Denton, Patrick 'Spot' Conlon

**Chapter 6: I'm a Newspaper Man**

—Bryan Denton's PoV—

Life as a freelance newspaperman is interesting. I can write about anyone, anything, for any place. At times I will write for small, local papers in my hometown of Lindale, and at others on a higher scale for national papers, such as the New York Times.

The town of Lindale has always mostly been a nice, quiet place. It's a good place to raise a family and that's what most people have decided to do here. Lindale is a small town with a population of six thousand, two thousand in the slums, three and a half thousand in upper-middle class, and five hundred high-class members of our community. But behind these figures are people and stories I am waiting anxiously to document. You would never guess by their dull exteriors that the people of Lindale are full of secrets and stories, ready to be publicly unveiled.

One such case is in the house of Jeremy Conlon. Jeremy had and always has been a wonderful man and a loyal police officer. No person in his right mind would gave suspected that his own son, Alexander, was mixed up with the forever sought after drug circulation. Every officer in Lindale had tried to nail the illegal drug pusher, but he would elude him. He had to have been a resident for he knew who was who.

However, they must have forgotten Alexander's connection to the force and sold him bag-fulls of marijuana. Jeremy discovered Alexander's habit and turned him in. what else was he to do? If he protected his son he could be linked to it later. In an act of selfish pride and self-protection Jeremy Conlon turned in his own son for drug possession, forcing him to attend extensive rehabilitation.

Who told me all this? The mayor himself. Lord knows I could never resist a good story so the town of Lindale soon learned all about the Conlon struggle and failure.

==

The doorbell rang loudly and I hurried to it, not wanting to keep any potential visitors waiting. Outside stood a short boy with very light brown hair and piercing blue eyes.

"May I help you?" I asked him kindly, though still not opening the door in its entirety.

"Actually, sir, you can. My name is Patrick Conlon. Recently you wrote an article in the paper that concerned my brother, Alex."

He proceeded to tell me of the threat of Alexander Conlon losing his university scholarship and the looming shadow on his future.

You have to understand, no job can be done properly without altering someone's life. Whether it is done for the better or resulting in ruin, one cannot assume it was his fault. I had not written the article in reckless abandon, but instead in the thirst for the truth.

"Well son," I smiled sadly, putting on the most compassionate voice and face I could find. "I can't take back what's been done. That article is out and what's been done is done. Shall we call it at that?"

For a second Patrick looked utterly disgusted at my comment, but momentarily he shrugged it off and cleared his throat. "Sir, I'm not looking for even so much as an apology," I flinched. "But I would like your help with something."

==

"I'm sorry Patrick, I can't tell you who have me the information about your brother, part of something we call 'Journalists Code'. What you read in the paper about Sheriff Meyers is true though, but I guarantee he let it slip in a moment of unthinking and absence of thought."

He politely waited for me to finish talking before scoffing at me. "And it is not in this Code of yours to ask the permission or your...topics before disclosing _personal information_ about them?"

True, the boy was surprisingly good at questioning the 'truth' and searching for the most believable answer in a virtual quilt of lies. He looked for every loose thread. Perhaps future journalistic material.

"I suppose that..." I sighed, realizing defeat. The story poured out of me, though changed to highlight and pinpoint the mayor for leaking Alexander's stay at Wincrest County.

With great respect and gratitude, Patrick rose, thanked me for my time, and headed for the door.

I never said I was perfect.

**End Chapter**

This is kind of the chapter marking the beginning of Spot's investigation into his brother's case and such. Please review. I think the chapter was a bit short, but hopefully you don't mind.

**Shoutouts:**

C.M. Higgins—I am convinced that everyone likes slash on _some _level.

Erin Go Bragh—my dad plays Queen on the way to soccer games to get us pumped up (esp. We Will Rock You, We Are the Champions and Another One Bites the Dust.) It works, I'm undefeated!

Icanreadncount—I just thought Virginia State sounded like a college. I didn't even know if it existed, I have nothing against Virginia Tech, honest. I live in Canada. We're sucking in the Olympics. I yell at the TV. That was random.


	7. Shame Over Kin

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.

**Living in Suburbia **

**Starring: **Richard 'Snipeshooter' Conlon, Hank 'Tumbler' Peterson, Les Jacobs, Sue-Ellen Conlon, Jeremy Conlon, Alexander 'Specs' Conlon

**Chapter 7—Shame Over Kin**

—Snipeshooter's PoV—

When I was very young my older brothers were things to be admired. No matter how hard they fell it would always be very possible for them to pick themselves up again. Quickly.

In their shadows I always felt slightly useless and undermined. They were better than me at everything and it was as if I was expected to surpass them. I never did and sometimes I would become frustrated to the verge of tears. But they were still my brothers.

In the Conlon family you love your mother, you love your father, and, though you don't have to _like_ them, you love your brothers.

And I do.

I still do.

My oldest brother, Specs, was everything I wanted to be. He was on the lacrosse team, had decent grades without really trying, and a full scholarship to a good university. They didn't hide it, for a shining moment Specs was their favourite and Spot and I were forgotten on the side.

Triple S was split.

Specs.

Spot.

Snipeshooter.

We weren't equal anymore, Specs was higher than us on the Love Scale.

I could see it in my father's eyes, how proud he was of Specs.

I could hear it in his voice how disappointed he was, the day we saw Specs off to Wincrest.

Specs begged us not to make him go. My mother tutted guiltily, not meeting his eyes, and my father said: "Don't be ridiculous, we're going to set things right. You're going."

He was never the same when he spoke of Specs after that. Every time someone said his name he would stiffen up and glare moodily at nothing in particular.

I wasn't proud of him after that. The wall came crashing down, I hated everything about him and I didn't want to look up to him. I didn't want to love him. I would have given anything to say I didn't know Alexander Conlon.

I was ashamed of my own flesh and blood. Shame was something Conlons were against, but it was something I couldn't help. It was something that escaped me. The ability to dismiss the feeling was impossible, it lingered everywhere I went. Anything that reminded me of Specs I hated. I couldn't watch lacrosse and I struggled through my science homework, his favourite subject.

The worst was when I'd lie to cover for him. Why should I have to cover for the mistake _he_ made?

I suspect it was harder for Spot to think of what to tell his friends and classmates, they were bound to notice Specs was missing. For me, however, it couldn't have been easier. I could just say Specs got a new job or had a lot of homework, we didn't go to their school so no one questioned this alibi, if they had even bothered to question at all. Now though, all my lies and deceit were for nothing because everyone in Lindale reads the paper, so everyone must have read the article.

I know they must have. It's in the way they looked at me in the hallways. It was different than they ever did before. Some of them watched me with definite caution, others with fear and others still with almost pity.

But most predominately it was when they talked about me. I'd know because only when they're talking about you can you silence a classroom upon entrance.

Heads turned, a couple boys sneered, and my seat had been given away to David Jacob's little brother, Les, who didn't even have a nickname. My best friend, Tumbler, wouldn't even meet my eye.

"Get out of my seat Jacobs," I said, glaring at Les. The idiot didn't even have a nickname and he thought he would take my seat.

Les made to move. Tumbler grabbed his arm.

"Go sit at the front _Richard_," he said spitefully. I flinched. He never used my real name.

Les looked up with a pleading, apologetic look on his face. I sneered at him and sat down, front row centre.

Sitting there, surrounded by all the kiss-ups and kids with weird hair, wasn't any better than if I were to be taking it all personally from Tumbler.

They all ignored me, shifting away from me in their seats and whispering frantically amongst themselves.

Worst of all was the snickers and chattering I could hear coming from Tumbler. And painfully, most of the time my name was included.

Tumbler and I had been best friends since we were in preschool together. We were bonded by our peculiar nicknames, invented to shun our real ones. Richard Conlon and Hank Peterson. The two stupidest names I'd ever heard.

Tumbler's father owned a good crop of land on the outskirts of town where we would spend most of our free time. We'd collect frogs from the small pond, build tree forts, go treasure hunting, and even act like we were stuck on an island. Sometimes, at night, Mr Peterson would make us a mesh tent out of mosquito netting and we would sleep in the field. In the winter we would have the biggest snowball fights imaginable and build king-sized forts.

But Tumbler was raised in a good, honest family and what my brother did was a scandal. My brother made a mistake that not only he, but also the entire family would regret for the rest of our lives. My life was falling apart. I was a troublemaker; I never sat in front of the class. I didn't have anyone to talk to. Someone always followed me, admired me. Without this piece of weak reassurance I didn't know what I was supposed to do. Things weren't right, they weren't comfortable.

Life in grade five as I knew it was over. Even though in a few months it would be grade six.

**End Chapter**

((Well, chapter seven is over. I decided to give Snipeshooter a PoV because we all know that Spot is trying to find justice for his brother, but we didn't know Snipeshooter's take on it. He had a very different view, he was outwardly shamed by his brother because of his strong pride to him before. I hope that al made sense.))

**Shoutouts:**

**C.M. Higgins—**thanks Hon, I love you and your reviews, even if they are a bit random.

**Erin Go Bragh—**Denton always seemed a bit sleazy to me in the movie, so I tried to contradict that.

**Jacky Higgins—**you make me feel bad, the Canadians aren't doing too well. We did, however, just win a gold in cycling and we're all expecting something big from Perdita Felicien (hurdles) and Alexander Despatie (diving) (he's only nineseen!) (and soooo cool!).

**Pidge—**What do you mean? It's not wrapping up fast! The plot's still building. We won gold!!!

**Icanreadncount**—well, I'm never that good at prolonging stuff like that. The only thing that really means is that I wouldn't' be good a writing soap operas. Whatever, not a dream of mine!


	8. Spur of the Moment

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.

**Living in Suburbia**

**Starring: **James 'Racetrack' Higgins, Patrick 'Spot' Conlon, Oscar Delancy, Jack Sullivan, Nathaniel 'Kid Blink' O'Connor, Philip 'Skittery' Bardot, David Jacobs, Christophe 'Itey' Tadesco, Alexander 'Specs' Conlon.

**Chapter 8--Spur of the Moment**

—Racetrack's PoV—

"Did you hear about Alex Conlon?" whispered someone to his friend as I passed by.

I tried to ignore it, but how could I? One of my best friends was just in the paper. For a not so flattering reason.

Spot let it roll off his back. He didn't even flinch when he heard his brother's name. I found it hard to believe that he wasn't wearing earplugs.

I tried asking him about it but he ignored me too. Spot, I think, is very determined not to let it bother him. I can't tell if it's working or not. People keep talking, not bothering to lower their voices or curb their need to gossip until Spot is out of hearing range. If anything they talk louder when he's around. Spot acts cool and stares straight ahead.

"What's the deal with your brother?" yelled one of the Delanceys, Oscar, to Racetrack between first and second period.

Spot stared at him stonily, pausing in his step, before continuing. He ignored their following jeers.

I don't know how he does it. If it were my brother people were talking about I would have handed out a few black eyes by now. But Spot tried his best to disregard them and continue on like everything was OK. Still, there was a slight cautiousness of the way he carried himself and in him, about his matter of behaviour and acting.

_Later_

"Are you mad?" asked Itey, shutting his locker and walking beside me to class. "I don't even know him!"

I smiled weakly. "That's all right, we'll bring along Jack, Blink and Skittery too."

Itey surveyed me as if I were out of my mind. "Race, we can't go up to Wincrest to see Specs! It's insane and dangerous, we _can't_!"

I rammed my hands into my pockets. "Fine Itey, I was just inviting you along. You hardly knew him, you're right. I'm going to find the others now."

I skipped next period searching for Skittery who had study hall.

I found him in the library. He reacted much the same way Itey had. Except, in the end, I managed to talk him into it.

"I guess Race, just to check up on him. Go find Jack, I'll go home and get the car."

And half an hour later we were on the road. Skittery was driving, Jack was in the passenger seat, Kid Blink was behind Jack, David—who Jack had insisted come along—was behind Skittery, and I was between them. No one said anything.

Occasionally Jack cleared his throat or Skittery would change the radio from bad traffic report to bad traffic report, but not much else happened.

David finally spoke.

"Does anyone know where Wincrest is?" he asked pointedly, seeing as we appeared to be driving aimlessly.

I looked out the window at the green farmland. Kid Blink shrugged. Jack looked worried. Skittery glanced back at David momentarily before turning back to the road.

"Of course I know where Wincrest is," he said.

Nobody spoke again until we got there.

The building was large and cold looking, surrounded by greenery and vast lawns. It was solely made of white brick, giving off a sterile impression: bitter and foreboding.

"This is cheerful," said Jack sarcastically as Skittery pulled into the parking lot.

We got out of the car and proceeded to the building. The lobby was empty and quiet, with only one nurse behind the desk. She looked up as we came in.

"May I help you?" she asked.

Only Jack spoke. "Yes, I'm Jack Sullivan, my friend Alexander Conlon is here. We would like to visit him."

She looked troubled. "I'm not sure if that's possible Mr Sullivan," she said. "Only direct family is allowed in. now, if any of you boys are _related_ to him, that would be a different story."

We looked around.

Skittery looked slightly sick. "I'm related to him," he said quietly.

Shocked, I faced Skittery.

The nurse looked slightly taken aback as well. "Are you? And how so?"

Skittery hesitated momentarily. "I'm his...I'm his half-brother."

She wrote something down on a clipboard she was carrying before getting us all to sign our names.

"Mr Conlon is staying in room sixty-two. Just go through those doors and continue straight," she told Skittery.

Once we were through the doors Kid Blink turned to Skittery. "Way to lie," he said softly.

Jack nodded. I didn't say anything.

Skittery looked sick again. "I didn't lie," he said gently.

Kid Blink looked at him warily. Even _he_ didn't know and he was Skittery's best friend.

"Mr Conlon is my father," said Skittery, looking ashamed.

But before we said anything more we were standing in front of Specs's door and Jack was clearing his throat. "Hi Specs," he said.

Specs looked tired but still happy to see us. "Hi guys," he said.

Jack stepped forward, then David, then me, then Kid Blink, with a wary glance at Skittery. Finally Skittery stepped up and greeted his friend.

_Later_

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" asked Kid Blink loudly on the way home.

Skittery stared ahead of him at the road and didn't answer.

"Does Spot know?" asked Blink, panicked.

Skittery shrugged. "I don't know. It's not up to me to tell him."

I stared somewhere along the dashboard. David and Jack said nothing.

I had the odd feeling Spot would know by tomorrow.

**End Chapter**

I'm updating but NOBODY ELSE IS! So, if I read your stuff (and even if I don't), update faster!!!

**Shoutouts:**

C.M. Higgins—Keep in mind, this took place in the 1950s, so things were different then.

Jacky Higgins—whatever, it's fine. We're used to it, our government doesn't put enough funding on athletics. However, Alexandre Despatie is HOT!

Icanreadncount—it's 'Michael' and I love your evil glare. Did you know that soap operas are called soap operas because the commercials are ones that advertise soap? Fascinating!

Erin Go Bragh—yeah, I don't have a friend like that either. Mine mostly get ignored by me. No, I'm joking. I'm a nice person, really!


	9. Kid Blink and Skittery

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.

**Living in Suburbia **

**Starring: **Patrick 'Spot' Conlon, Nathaniel 'Kid Blink' O'Connor, Jeremy Conlon

**Chapter 9**

—Spot's PoV—

Amidst the panic to catch my brother's wrongdoer came another distraction. I never would have guessed it, but when Kid Blink appeared at my door around seven in the evening, I had to believe it.

Skittery has been Skittery's best friend for quiet a while. There were six boys spread over three years. Racetrack and I, Skittery and Kid Blink, Specs and Jack. Race and I were friends off the bat and soon, after getting a few angry calls from the school about Jack and Specs' behaviour towards each other, they too were inseparable. For Skittery and Kid Blink it took a while longer.

Kid Blink was an awkward, one-eyed kid, with no father and a large house he shared with his mother.

"I will not remarry," declared Marguerite O'Connor indefinitely. "As long as I am living in my dead husband's house I will be sworn to him and him alone."

Marguerite was a beautiful woman around the time of her husband's death, and still possesses that aged beauty. She is thin with very long, sandy blonde hair and the hugest, bluest, roundest eyes you will ever see. Mrs O'Connor is around the height of my father, but he is a short man, so average height for a woman. She is caring and soft-spoken. And very proud of whom she is and what she has.

"Where's your daddy?" Skittery asked Kid Blink on the first day they met. Kid Blink, thinking Skittery was trying to be smart, plunged at his, fists ready and feet flailing. Unlike Jack and Specs though, this was not the recipe for friendship.

Skittery had a few bruises and a black eye while Kid Blink had a scraped knee and a grounding.

"Never use your fists Nathaniel!" scolded Marguerite. Blink sniffed and wiped his eye with his fists.

It wasn't until the beginning of high school that either of them began to like each other.

Skittery is a handsome boy. He is tall and chiselled, with a charming smile and a heart-leaping laugh. Girls like him. They don't like Blink who is missing an eye and is constantly serious around them. Skittery didn't know what it was like to be Kid Blink until he spilt the kettle on himself and burned his upper neck and lower chin.

Immediately Blink took to him.

"It will be fine," he assured and swollen and scabbing Skittery.

Skittery tried to smile, but flinched instead. "Are you sure?"

Kid Blink nodded.

So they have yet to return to before. Sure, Skittery's burn has vanished, leaving the prints of a vague scar on the side of his neck, but Kid Blink and Skittery and best friends too, something that makes everyone's parents happy and content.

And this is why I had to believe Kid Blink. Since he punched out Skittery for asking about his father, he has not hurt his physically or emotionally, even when they didn't like each other.

"Spot, can I come in?" asked Blink awkwardly.

I nodded and moved aside to allow him inside.

He looked around carefully before continuing. "We—uh—went to see Specs today," he said.

My breathing slowed.

"And they," he laughed nervously. "They almost wouldn't let us in. We weren't family. But they did because—uh—of Skittery..."

He trailed off uncertainly. I knew what he meant, but at the same time, I didn't want to.

"What do you mean, 'because of Skittery'?" I asked. My mouth was dry.

Blink rubbed his arm and shifted his feet. "Spot, Skittery is your half-brother," he whispered.

I really wanted his to tell me he was joking or to shake his head and say he was mistaken, but he didn't. He just stood there. He just _stood there_. Watching me. I swallowed a few times. And I thought about it.

"_Skittery doesn't look a thing like Gerald, does he?" asked Mrs Higgins._

"_No, not at all," said my mother. _

"_Do you ever think Scarlet...you know?" asked Mrs Higgins._

"_Are you two brothers?" asked a man of Specs and Skittery._

_Specs laughed. "Nah, just friends."_

"_What did you say your name was?" asked the high school schedule manager of me in grade nine._

"_Patrick," I said._

"_Oh, Bardot? Yes, your brother Philip is in my English class."_

"_No, it's Conlon."_

I shook my head, trying to blast out the memories. Kid Blink looked uncertain of what to do.

"Just leave," I said, my throat clenching and fighting back the tears.

"Listen, Spot, I'm really sorry about—"

"Blink, just _leave_. I don't want to talk about it."

I slammed the door after him. My father came running.

"Patrick, what are you doing?" he asked.

I glared. "Nothing, sorry _Dad_."

**End Chapter**

I think that was kind of short, but I hope no one minded. I actually liked that chapter; I am hoping everyone else did too. Please review.

I am very sad. School starts tomorrow.

**Shoutouts:**

**Lyra/Erin go Bragh—**no one knows because they haven't told anyone. As you can see (and was foreshadowed in the first chapter) some people suspect that Mr Bardot isn't Skittery's real father, but no one asks about it. Would you? I mean, just walk up to a woman and say 'hello there, I was wondering if you sleep around because your husband looks nothing like your son'.

**Icanreadncount—**a few people have already punched each other. In flashbacks, at least. However, I know who is going to punch who. I wasn't going to put it in, but I will because you mentioned it.

**Madison Square—**school starts tomorrow for me and I'm not looking forward to it. I am, for now, just enjoying Labour Day weekend as long as possible so that school seems farther away.

**Utopia Today—**I'm really no good at remembering families and stuff like that (names, last names, who's friends with who, etc.) so I have made a little chart at the top of my word document. This way I just scroll to the top if I forget!

**Jacky Higgins—**are you talking about Alexandre Despatie? I don't remember. Anyways, there's this picture of him for Bell that looks really stupid because he looks squished, but the picture in the Star was OK.

**C.M. Higgins—**I can just sneak on...shhh! The computer's in my room, but last time I got caught. Fortunately, my dad for got about it, unfortunately, we're moving the computer to the basement.

**Strawberri Shake (and her SIX reviews)—**thanks for reviewing all the chapters.

(Chapter 3)—yes, Lacrosse is the national sport of Canada. Most people, like you, think it's hockey. I'm not sure where lacrosse or hockey were invented, I assume Canada, but basketball was also invented here. However, we're not very good at it and that embarrassing. I would hate to be stranded senior year if my nest friend left. This year, though, I am. Though I am not a senior.

(Chapter 4) I would make Dutchy a family, but I'm not sure how I would work them in.

(Chapter 5) yeah, it does suck, being slash free and all. However, I am working on a butt-load of stories, all of which but one are slash-tastic! I always pair Race and Itey up as cousins or friends or something. It just works.

(Chapter 6) yeah, I'll have to include the mayor in later chapters. Right now I am not sure how (as with many other aspects of this)

(Chapter 7) I don't like Denton. He combs his hair in grease and is sleazy and icky! THEY DELEATED SWEET HOW CAROLINA!????? HOW COULD THEY??? THAT WAS ON MY _FAVOURITES _LIST!!! That makes me sad.

(Chapter 8) I didn't really realize the quadruple S thing, but it works. Cool!


	10. The Zippo

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.

**Living in Suburbia **

**Starring: **Alexander 'Specs' Conlon, John 'Dutchy' Dutchyshen, Ms. Medda Larkson, Belinda Davies

**Chapter 10—The Zippo**

—Specs' PoV—

Dutchy doesn't sleep. He sits awake all night and flicks his Zippo. I don't know where he got the lighter, he probably snuck it in. However he got it, he loves it. No one can touch it. Ever.

Dutchy's Zippo is all black and white. It has a skull and crossbones, which are the white and the background is the black.

As soon as lights out hits, Dutchy curls up on his bed, his knees to his chin, and flicks the lighter open and closed, open and closed. He stares at the lighting mechanism as he does this, hypnotized by the smooth continuation of his actions. Occasionally he pushes the trigger and creates a purple-blue flame. When he does this, his face is bathed in its momentary light, displaying his exhausted face, making him seem feeble and old. People wonder why he always looks so tired. Only I know that it is because he doesn't sleep. I have never seen him, at least.

I am lying in my bed, my back against the wall. My eyes are half open and my glasses off, so I can see the glint of black and white metal as he clinks it open. Dutchy knows I'm watching him. He flicks the Zippo towards me slightly. I close my eyes and try to sleep.

The flicking of the lighter is now as familiar as a lullaby. It carries a steady rhythm, lulling me to sleep.

"A lot of friends, eh _Specs_?" whispers Dutchy, stressing my name.

My eyes fly open. The room is bathed in eerie white moonlight from the curtainless (they're afraid we'd strangle ourselves with them) window. Dutchy has stopped flicking his lighter, it sits stationary in his hand.

I don't answer.

"I had friends once," he says quietly, though I am not sure whether he's talking to me, or trying to convince himself.

I keep silent.

"I had them. Yeah. Mush. His dad was a doctor," Dutchy's eyes have glazed over slightly, a look I am used to bit still scared of.

He repeats himself. "His dad was a doctor."

Dutchy's head snaps towards me. He narrows his eyes.

"Did your friends screw you over Specs?" he asks.

I still don't say anything. A lump forms in my throat.

Dutchy is standing now.

"Did they?" he asks again, his voice raising. Soon he is yelling. "Did they Specs? Did they?"

I sit up. "Dutchy, calm down."

Dutchy is shaking all over. Violently. "Fuck you!" he shrieks. "Fuck you! Fuck Mush! Fuck this whole damn place!" He pounds on the wall with his balled-up fists. The lighter falls to the ground, Dutchy doesn't notice. He beats at the walls some more, reminding me of an oversized child.

"Fuck this whole damn place!" he kicks his bed.

I can hear footsteps in the hallway. Dutchy rushes to the window. Panicked voices outside the door. He tries, but can't pull the window up. The doorknob rattles. He screams and drives his fist through the glass.

The door opens.

Dutchy is bleeding on the ground, his hand stuck full of shards, his forehead too, with one large piece protruding from it, boasting a shallow gash. I sit on my bed, feeling like I may vomit.

A woman stands in the doorway, her shadow displayed against the yellowed light from the hall. Her lips are pursed.

Dutchy begins to cry.

0o0o0o0o0

_The Next Day..._

0o0o0o0o0

They moved him out.

The picture of the model in the bathing suit is gone. The bed is made.

It is as if he never existed.

"John Dutchyshen," explained the woman, "is better suited to a different type of help that we can't offer him. He has been relocated at Cherrywood Hospitalization Centre. You can contact him, through mail, if you wish."

If I want.

She left. Her name, she told me, was Ms. Larkson. Not 'Mrs' or 'Miss'. Strictly 'Ms'.

So, my room is looking very bare. The window is covered in thick card and tape. Dutchy has gone to Cherrywood.

The nut house. Excuse me, the 'psychiatric hospital'. I thought he was moody, foul mouthed and depressed, but not insane. Just lonely.

I suppose he could stand the loneliness, since I was lonely too. Then my family visited. Then my friends. It made me feel better, but him feel worse.

Alone.

Unrelated to anyone else in this dame place. Taking so long to be clean.

I have his Zippo. I found it under his bed, where he must have kicked it when he was wrestled out of the room.

The lighter is comfortable in my hand, a nice size and weight. The design is still recognisable when I'm not looking at it; the embossed image is obvious against my fingers. But I don't hold it for too long, it doesn't feel right.

It was Dutchy's, and now he's gone.

I wonder who my new roommate will be. If even I get one. Maybe they'll think I was 'traumatized' and sign me up for extra counselling. At my parents' expense.

I hate counselling. It is mainly just an old man in a chair, pointing finger at me, saying that I'll never make anything of myself if I don't straighten up.

Negative reinforcement.

I haven't been outside for weeks. It is sunny and warm, but I don't feel like any fresh air. I miss it, but I want to deprive myself of something. I want to punish myself for doing this to everyone.

I also miss girls. There are girls here, sure, but not as many. Maybe only four on my floor.

I think girls do drugs too, they just don't get caught.

Besides, these girls all look so tired. Waxy, lifeless and fake. One of them is in my group counselling session, her name is Belinda Davies. Group counselling is the same as one-on-one counselling, but in front of many people.

Belinda is seventeen years old. She has blonde hair, heavy eyelashes and yellow skin. Her teeth are stained and she has looping purple bags under her eyes. Her legs are very thin, but her stomach is round and even because she's pregnant. She doesn't talk much, but I know enough.

Belinda was on cocaine. She and her boyfriend, who was of lower class.

"Eric and I were seeing each other secretly," she told us, "my family wouldn't approve is they knew. It wasn't the right way to things. Anyways, we got into coke. His friend knew someone. Now, my family knew about that, I mean, I couldn't they? They only sent me here when they found out I was pregnant. It was in February, I went to Eric's place and he—"

The councillor cleared his throat.

"Anyways, they only did it because they didn't want me to see Eric. They said it's because of the baby, but they were lying."

Belinda still smokes cigarettes. A lot of them. The hallway around her room always smells like them. The smoke wafts out through the doorway, filling the hall with the thick scent.

She usually stands by the window, staring at the square below.

When I pass her room I go in and hand her the Zippo.

She turns it over in her hand. "And I didn't think I was going to have a baby shower," she says.

**End Chapter**

I am so, so sorry for not updating sooner! I had a lot of school-related stuff to do. My deepest apologies. I hope you forgive me!

**Shoutouts:**

**C.M. Higgins—**That's right! It gets more interesting! Pidge said that this was going to be over soon because she could already see the ending! How wrong she was!

Pidge: Hey!

Me: Sorry, but you're wrong. W-R-O-N-G, WRONG!

Pidge: (sniff)

Me: Anyways, thanks for the review. My computer has yet to move to the basement, it's still in my room.

**Icanreadncount—**hey! Bring back SPOT!

And Dutchy just punched a window, does that count as someone getting punched? Does it? Huh?

Itey!Muse: Calm down Buttons.

Michael!Muse: I agree.

Buttons: aw, shaddap. Go get married!

Michael!Muse: OK!!!

Itey!Muse: noooo! (runs away)

**Jacky Higgins—**I am seriously not liking school. It's big and dark and I have no friends.

Ok, that was a lie. It's pretty bright and I have a good deal of friends. And I got perfect on my French test! And I'm bad at French!!! Whooo!

**Utopia Today—**mmmm, delicious. I'm hungry.

I like flashbacks too, they're effective for telling a character's story. There were no flashbacks in this one though. Sorry.

**Erin Go Bragh—**Spitzer's AWESOME!!!

Spitzer!Muse: thanks.

Me: (introduces plug) go read Emperor of the World if you want slash. It's all kissing and fluffy. As of yet...

I don't want Michael/Vlad because I don't like Vlad much. He's a three timer!!! Ahhh!

**Strawberri Shake—**I think it's 'cause they're both Italian. That's gotta be it. And be nice to Spotty! He's just a poor victimized boy!


	11. My New Red Room

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.

**Living in Suburbia **

**Starring: **Patrick 'Spot' Conlon, Richard 'Snipeshooter' Conlon, Sue-Ellen Conlon, Jeremy Conlon, Marguerite O'Connor, Nathaniel 'Kid Blink' O'Connor

**Chapter 11**

—Spot's PoV—

Skittery is my brother. That's strange, but predictable in a way. However, to know that my father was screwing around with another woman is a shock. For Jeremy Conlon, his worst moments were when he got a bit too drunk and threw up and when he got angry at the grocer and tipped over a crate of tomatoes, which he ended up apologizing and paying for.

Yet, through all that, him being good and loyal to the city, I still felt no respect towards him. He would sell out his eldest son so that he would make a name for himself on the force. He would turn his back on his family when it was inevitable that they need face their demons.

And now this. Skittery knows. I'm sure his father knows and it's no doubt his mother does. What about my mother? Does she know? And Specs and Snipeshooter? How about them? Am I the only one left out on this? Am I the only one who had no idea that my father was a cheating pig?

"Patrick, pass the potatoes."

I look up, jolted out of my stupor.

I reach to the heavy bowl and pass it over to him. That scum.

"So, Dad," I begin calmly. "Are you still seeing Mrs. Bardot?"

And I can't believe what I've just said. The table grows silent. My mother looks from him to me slowly. Snipeshooter drops his fork.

My father's eyes bulge, but he quickly regains himself. "I don't know what you're talking about." He scoops some potatoes onto his plate.

"Then how come Skit—Philip does?" I ask.

He glares.

"What's going on?" asks my mother shakily.

I turn to her. "Dad used to mess around with Mrs. Bardot. That's why Skittery doesn't look like Mr. Bardot."

My father stands up and slaps me across the face with the backside of his hand. "Shut up Patrick, this is none of your business. Keep it to yourself. This is my issue with your mother. It's not your place to get involved."

I scowl. My cheek smarts where he smacked me, the feeling hot and real still. "Specs was right to get out while he could," I hiss.

He looks like he wants to punch me. I tip my chin up, daring him to.

He turns away. "Richard, help your brother clear the table."

He and my mother leave.

0o0o0o0o0o0

I can hear their voices. Hers is soft and deliberate, his is panicked and apologetic. He's falling apart.

"What's going on?" asks Snipeshooter.

"Dad's a skeeze," I tell him, scrubbing a plate with a sponge.

Snipeshooter looks to the doorway. "Skittery's our brother?" he asks awe-filled.

I nod.

Snipeshooter begins to grasp the concept. He doesn't say anything. We listen to the conversation.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

For a while we are going to stay at Kid Blink's house. This is fine by me. It is large and stately, with presidential balconies and tiled flooring. There are fresh flowers on every table, and two housemaids with stark white uniforms to wait on us. It is like staying at a fancy hotel, only for free.

Blink shows Snipeshooter and I our rooms. Snipeshooter's is green and has a large bed in the centre. There are a lot of chests for him to put his toys, as well as a heavy desk and matching chair.

My room is smaller than Sniper's, but with royal red paint and a thick bedspread. I also have a desk and chair, along with an adjoining bathroom.

My mother's room is all pink and floral, with a puffy bedspread and flowing curtains.

"I hope this will do you all well, I know it's not home, but we'll do our best to make you feel comfortable," says Mrs. O'Connor pleasantly.

My mother insists that everything is wonderful.

The house is very grand. Blink's daddy was an oil baron before he died. People always thought Mrs. O'Connor was only with him for his money, but she didn't remarry after he died and stayed true to his name, so people had to re-evaluate this. Mrs. O'Connor is very pretty. She is getting older, but her blue eyes are still alive. My mother looks very plain next to her or Mrs. Bardot, who is an exotic beauty of sorts.

Blink and I sit down to talk for a while. We talk about Specs and ease in to Skittery and, finally, my father.

My father is at home alone. The only thing I fear is that he will burn down the house. He doesn't cook well or fend for himself. I wouldn't want my room, which has all my baseball posters in it, to go up in flames.

I couldn't care less about him, however.

I want to talk to Skittery, tell him I know. I am his younger brother. Did he ever think about it that way? Does he stand up for me in a brotherly way, but I just don't notice? How long has he known. I am sitting on my bed when I ponder this, only to stop myself.

I have to concentrate on Specs right now. His future depends on it, and maybe mine does too.

0o0o0o0o0o0

"Who could be behind drugs in Lindale?" I wonder aloud.

Blink looks up. "Seriously? You've never thought of it before?"

I look to him, confused. Did I miss an obvious suspect?

"It's the mayor!" he exclaims. He goes on to divulge his ideas and the plans of the mayor's conspiracy on the teens of the town. "He sells drugs so that the state will send him more money for law enforcement. At the same time, he raises local taxes for the same thing. It's a first class scandal!" he finishes strongly.

I don't know if I should smack Blink for being so idiotic, or smacking myself for admitting this could make sense. Why else would he tell a reporter about his town's drug control problem? He wants more money and we're willing to pay it if it keeps our loved ones from getting mixed up in this all. The more we pay, the more he can expand. This could go regional.

I look at Blink. "You're a genius!" I exclaim.

He shrugs. "Yeah, I try."

**End Chapter**

Hmmm... did that have a point? Read and find out!!! Muahhahahahaha!

**Shoutouts:**

**Jacky Higgins—**I'm taking German next year!

Charlie!Muse: You aren't even German! At all!!!

Me: so? The teacher's nice.

Charlie!Muse: Yeah, whatever. (muttering) pretender.

Me: I'm not a pretender! You came third place in your own look-alike contest! I WIN!

**Erin Go Bragh—**I totally agree. I love For the Want of a Nail, but I too don't think Ellen should be OK with Vlad so fast. He's a skeeze. Just like Mr. Conlon. Did you get my email, but the way?

**Utopia Today—**hear that everybody! I'm supercool! I'm so cool, it's illegal!

Itey!Muse:is supercool a word?

Charlie!Muse: no, it's not you moron! It is underlined in red! That means it's spelt wrong!

Me: be nice to Itey.

Charlie: (mocking) be nice to Itey! Blah!

Me: that's it! Go to the corner!

**Strawberri Shake—**I want any Zippo lighter. I wrote the last chapter in class, so I was going on about Zippos during French and everyone was like 'is she one something'?

Belinda: (comes back and re-steals the lighter)

Tom!Muse: I'll save the day! (chases after Belinda) Come back here! I'm Superman!!!

Charlie!Muse: (from corner) heheheh (trips Tom)

Tom!Muse: (falls) Ow.

Me: (sighs) hectic, hectic, hectic.

**C.M. Higgins—**Pidge is silly. I miss her. We go to different schools now and we don't see each other nearly as much. Though we do every weekend. EVERY weekend.

Pidge: (sticks head in door) that's right!

**Icanreadncount—**yeah. Spotty's a loudmouth. Someone will probably punch someone soon. I'm thinking it'll be Mr. Bardot hitting Mr. Conlon, but things could all change with the wind...

Spitzer!Muse: are you trying to be cryptic? How posh!

Me: thanks!

Peter!Muse: what does 'cryptic' mean?

Spitzer: y'know, cryptic...like, being crypt-like...ish.

Peter!Muse: oh! I see (it still confused)

Me: Spitzer, do _you_ know what cryptic means?

Spitzer!Muse: of course! How dare you! If you gave me the definition right now, I'd be able to tell if you were lying!

Me: OK, to be mysterious and puzzling.

Spitzer!Muse: (squints) that's it!

Me: no, I was lying.

Spitzer!Muse: (coughs awkwardly) yeah. I was...uh...testing you...

Me: (rolls eyes)


	12. Letters Home

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.

**Living in Suburbia **

**Starring: **Patrick 'Spot' Conlon, Alexander 'Specs' Conlon, The Mayor

**Chapter 12--My Letter Home**

—Spot's PoV—

Sometimes I don't know how I do it. Somehow I managed a meeting with the mayor.

Technically though, it wasn't a meeting. I just showed up and said I wanted to talk to him. But they let me by no problem, so it's pretty much a meeting.

The mayor's office is large and round. It has a mahogany desk with a fancy nameplate. Either side of the desk has a tall, leafy plant, and in the wall is a huge stone fireplace. The mayor smiled.

"Hello Patrick, take a seat, won't you?" He gestured to the large leather chair before him.

I sat on the edge and cleared my throat. The mayor smiles some more. "So, what's this all about?" he asked.

"Well," I thought about how to choose my words. "What exactly are you doing to...bust this drug chain?" I asked.

He was still smiling, but it didn't travel to his eyes, which were cold and determined. "Patrick, I know you don't pay taxes, but your parents will know, we are doing all we can to—as you said—_bust_ this chain." Suddenly I was sure what Kid Blink had said was right. I was positive.

A smile curved in the edge of my lips. "You mean _we_ do all we can."

It was getting harder for him to remain smiling, I could tell. "Why would I want this blotch on the city record? Lindale is a respectful town, this small detail in the way of perfection."

I leaned forward. "What do you mean _small detail_? This so-called 'small detail' has destroyed my family!"

"Listen, Patrick, this news about your family is perfectly awful, but—"

But I'd lost it. "How do you do it? How long have you been doing it for?"

His smile dropped right off his face. "How long have I been doing _what_?"

"Selling drugs?" I asked.

His eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you suggesting?" he asked.

"How do you afford leather chairs? And a pure mahogany desk? What about this nameplate? Gold, I assume. Where do you get the money for this?" My voice was a vicious hiss.

The mayor looked like he'd be sick. "I get the money from the city," he said, matching my tone with barely a whisper.

"From the force account, I assume?" I retorted quickly.

His eyes blazed. "This money provides your family a house in the best part of town. Think about that before you accuse the city of such blasphemy!"

"The money provides me a home, only to pull it apart again. What about all the kids who work for their families? Who will provide their families with support when they're gone? When they spend all their money on marijuana? So what if they're a lower class? They voted for you too." My whisper was deadly, crawling over the space between us dangerously.

"You, young man, are jeopardising your father's position," the mayor tried weakly.

"Who cares?" I spat. "The bastard can burn in hell." I stood. "Thank you for you time _sir_." I stood and left, swinging the heavy door shut behind me.

—Specs' PoV—

Things are lonely. They haven't given me a new roommate yet. There isn't anything to do. His bed is staying made, tight and unnaturally, only reminding me that he's not coming back.

I found a piece of paper and a pen. For almost ten minutes I just sat with my pen poised over the page, thinking about what I should write.

_Dutchy,_

_They told me they brought you to Cherrywood. I am writing to tell you that I found your lighter. I am very sorry to have touched it, but you were gone. I no longer have it, I gave it to Belinda, do you know her? I hope they treat you well and that you get better. Things are lonely. They took down your poster, do you have it? _

_Write back. _

_Specs_

I re-read it. I wonder how his hand is. Yesterday men came in a replaced the window with Plexiglas. It isn't as nice to look through, being slightly translucent, but it is impossible to punch through.

The blood was cleaned off the floor; one of the nurses came in and did that almost immediately. The ceiling boasts a darkened rectangle, where the poster used to be. I stare at it and it hits me. How long had Dutchy been here anyways? Longer than me, I know, but how long?

His family never visited, did he have any? What about his friend? The one who had a father who was a pharmacist.

I chew at the cuticle around my nail and stare out the window. I think about what kind of relationship Dutchy had had with this boy. Thank God none of my friends ever got into drugs.

I pick up the pen again, but this time I don't have to think about what I'm going to write.

_Jack,_

_My roommate is gone to Cherrywood and I got to thinking. I am very glad that you didn't get involved when I did. My friends and family matter more to me than anything, please be sure that I know this. _

_I know that you're going away to university next year, so we won't see much of each other, but I want to wish you luck. Please don't make my mistakes when you are there, I have seen you play football and you can do anything. Keep your grades up, the coach says you can start if you do, right? When you go pros, remember me. Help your kids, don't stray too far Jack Sullivan, you're my best friend in the world._

_Specs_

I don't re-read this one. I'm afraid that if I do I will decide not to send it. I shove it into an envelope. I draw out another piece of paper and begin again.

_Spot and Snipeshooter,_

_I miss you guys, but seeing you the other day was good. Please give dad my best and tell mom I love her._

_I know I have messed things up, and I am sorry. I am going through a hard time, but I can't imagine what it must be like for you. I'm sorry for messing up your lives along with mine. I should have listened to you Spot, I should have quit. Do you remember telling me? In February? _

_I hope you two have a good summer and I hope I can make it home by the time it's time for you to go back to school. I'm working on it, I promise. I'll be better, but I'm not yet. _

_Love Specs_

Something tingles at the corner of my eye and I wipe back the tear. I bite my tongue and shove this letter into an envelope. Next I write the addresses on all of them neatly and bring them to the mail drop. After I shut the slot I open again and stare down into the black gorge. It's dark and never-ending. There's no turning back now.

I walk to the guidance office and sit on the chair in the waiting area. When the doctor sees me we begin talking.

"I have to get better," I say, "I promised my brothers."

**End Chapter**

Hi guys! I can't remember when I last updated, so that can't be good. But at least I updated now, right? Very good. Please review. Looks like Specs will get better, eh?

**Shoutouts:**

**Erin Go Bragh—**I probably won't use your character as a main one because I already have parts for most of the characters, but I am planning something that I could use her for, but she may have to be older and only appear in a few chapters, if that's OK.

**Icanreadncount—**oh (is sad at being called a spaz) I thought the names at the beginning would be cool and I guess it is. Mr. Conlon is a meanie!!!

**C.M. Higgins—**YES! Intense...heh heh heh...

**Utopia Today—**yes. Go ponder it!!! Blink may actually be right, I man, come on, he's got a lot of power and knows everyone...hmmm...

**Jacky Higgins—**I forgot that I have to take Civics next year, which blows, so I will have to drop French, Art, Business or German. I don't know which one!!! Ahhh!!! Damn Civics.

**Strawberri Shake—**yes, I think that Spot and Blink are the heros of this story. It just works. The short kid and the kid with the eye patch saving the day! WOOT! Go boys!


	13. Mail

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.

**Living in Suburbia **

A/n: I can't get online!!! In fact, I'm not even updating this! My good friend Almatari is!

**Starring: **Patrick 'Spot' Conlon, Jack Sullivan

**Chapter 13--Mail**

—Spot's PoV—

Rarely do I ever get mail. My father brought it around midday, but my mother refused to speak with him. Mrs. O'Connor took the letter, along with our other mail, from him and the shut the door.

I read the letter first, very slowly. His scrawl was even and neat. It filled the paper, the ink bleeding into the threads of the fibre, indicating that he was probably pressing down hard on the page.

He addressed the letter to Snipeshooter and I. The sentence that closed the letter stuck in my mind. _I'll be better, but I'm not yet._

He was going to get better. He was trying, this letter proved it. A feeling of pride and sorry grew in my gut. I showed the letter to Snipeshooter, who read it and looked sad. Then I brought it over to Skittery's house because even thought Specs doesn't know it, he's our brother too.

—Jack's PoV—

There was a thin letter lying on my dresser when I came into my room today. The envelope was slightly yellowed and the letter inside was smooth and unwrinkled. Specs' writing filled the page.

It was short, but meaningful. Specs has always been a good friend and an influence in my life, but I realized that he's so special now that he's written down everything that he did.

I realize how lonely he must be, especially now that his roommate is at Cherrywood.

Specs was never as strong as Spot and Snipeshooter. Maybe I was supposed to be strong for him. The more I read the letter, the more sure I am that I could have done something. No, I don't blame myself, but I do feel like I should have noticed. We'd been friends for so long, how could I think that he had just ditch me?

It takes me a while, but even though Specs is gone, has missed our senior year, maybe I'm the one who's the bad friend. I didn't fight. I just let him slip away.

**End Chapter**

Yes, I know, shortest chapter ever. At least I updated, OK?

Leave me alone. I've been on the computer all day writing. I'm tired.

**Shoutouts**

Thanks everyone! Sorry this is so short and impersonal, but I need to go eat and sleep and stop being on the computer.

**C.M. Higgins**

**Erin Go Bragh**

**Jacky Higgins**

**icanreadncount**


	14. Drugs Uderground

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Newsies or any other media references I may make throughout the duration of this fic.

**Living in Suburbia **

**Starring: **The Mayor (Reginald Hudson), Benjamin Rodmore, Marshall VanMasian, Garret Jones, James Langford, Thomas Stewart, Patrick 'Spot' Conlon, Marguerite O'Connor, Sue-Ellen Conlon, Anna (the housemaid), Jack Kelly, Nathaniel O'Connor, Alexander 'Specs' Conlon

**Chapter 14**

—General PoV—

In the early morning, due to an anonymous tip, the mayor was shocked from his sleep. At his door were five police officers that he himself had appointed, along with a warrant to search his home and his office.

The mayor had no choice, he let the men in and made himself a cup of coffee.

The officers found nothing unusual on the premises, not in his room or the refrigerator. Not in the garden shed or the vegetable cellar. They each, in turn, tipped their hats and apologized for the disturbance.

By this time the neighbours had woken up and, seeing the two police cars in the driveway, were craning their necks to see what was the trouble.

The mayor sipped his hot, black coffee and watched through spiteful eyes as the cars drove away.

The warrant lay on the table, unmoving and glossy in the morning air.

_Issued by Jeremy Conlon_, it read. The mayor's hands tightened around his cup.

0o0o0

When Spot woke up, a filtering of blood-red came through his eyelids. The crimson maple wood blurred into view. The full red comforter was warm and heavy. From downstairs came the thick smell of waffle and a citrus-orange tinge. Spot, with his hair on end, rolled out of bed and dragged himself downstairs where his mother and Marguerite O'Connor were drinking tea, while Anna—Mrs. O'Connor's housemaid—used the waffle iron.

"Good mornin' Simon," said Mrs. Conlon. Her face was tired and her eyes hallowed, but she tried to smile.

Anna prepared a plate for Spot three waffles his and decorated with cubed oranges and whipping cream.

Halfway through his second waffle the foorbell rang. Anna ran to answer it, keaving three of them alone in the kitchen.

"Who could that be?" wondered Mrs. O'Connor aloud. "Calling so early in the morning. Nathaniel and Richard aren't even out of bed yet."

When Anna returned to the kitchen she was followed by Jack.

"The mayor's been taken downtown!" exclaimed Jack breathlessly. "My mama saw them this morning, when they cane 'round and searched his place. Not they've come back and have taken his off in the back of a car."

Marguerite offered Jack a seat and together they all ate waffles and discussed this strange occurrence. Only Spot felt something at the back of mind. Something that tugged and reminded him of Kid Blink's idea.

Lindale: town of conspiracy?

0o0o0

By the time the afternoon paper came out there was already a buzz about the street. Everyone wondered. Where was the mayor? Why was he gone?

On the front page of the Lindale Banner was a long article by Bryan Denton about the arrest of the mayor.

_Early this morning the mayor himself, Reginald Hudson, was woken from his slumber at a knocking on the door. He answered it, surprised to find five police officers, Benjamin Rodmore, Marshall VanMasian, Garret Jones, James Langford and Thomas Stewart standing on his porch. They were equipped with a warrant issued by the sheriff, Jeremy Conlon, who we discover was laid off shortly after the visit. _

"_An anonymous tip was phoned in and it is our duty to follow through on them," explained Conlon in a conference this morning. "We are very concerned as to the perpetrator of the drug ring that plagues Lindale, and we will do what we see fit to end it."_

_And, indeed, there was a large door in the wooden floors of the mayor's office. Beneath it twenty-seven pounds of illegal substance, including cocaine and marijuana. When the officers returned to the mayor's home to make an arrest they found him packing his bags and preparing to leave. However, he left quietly at gunpoint and is currently being held at the main station. _

"_His house was a mess," Garret Jones informed us. "He appeared to have been stumbling around in his haste to leave. We are just lucky that we could get back before he got away."_

_Conlon has not been able to trace the origin of the tip, but he is very grateful to whoever did so._

"_You have saved many families from being destroyed in the path of Hudson. Be proud that you have helped and even changed someone's life."_

_Recently Conlon's son has been publicly outed as a drug user. The mayor said in a statement earlier today: "Jeremy Conlon is just sore over the misfortunes of his son. He seems to be cutting corners to find a villain, including issuing a warrant without proper reason."_

_The mayor also denies any contact with illegal substances and claims that he was not aware that he even had a trap door in his office._

_Bryan Denton_

Spot's eyes darted over the article again and again. Kid Blink sat in a chair at the kitchen table and shot him a smug sort of look.

"Didn't I tell you?" he asked superiorly.

Spot nodded, awestruck. "You tipped them off?" he gasped.

Kid Blink laughed a little. "Don't be silly. I thought you did."

But Spot had not.

"I 'ad always known 'at mayor fellah was a no good scumbag," said Anna loudly in her thick accent.

Kid Blink regained his smile. "Me too Anna. I always had the feeling."

0o0o0

It arrived in the mail, from his father. Specs tore the envelope open with his nail and dumped the contents onto his lap. There was a thick letter filled with Jeremy's penmanship, as well as a large, well-pressed newspaper clipping. Specs read them thirstily.

When he was done he sighed heavily and folded the paper neatly. He placed them both on his bedside table. When he was done thinking about the mayor's odd plot of conspiracy he took out a piece of paper, addressed it to his mother, father and brothers, and wrote only one sentence.

_I've only got one month; I'm coming home._

**The End (Entirely) **

Was that too rushed? I know, I know, I'm really sorry. I couldn't help it! I juts ran out of plot. I hope you liked it anyways. I'm thinking of making this into a series, y'know, the whole Lindale thing. Tell me if you all think I should.

Review!

**Shoutouts:**

**C.M. Higgins: **aw! I've been missed! I feel so special. I'm at school. Sssh.

**Erin Go Bragh: **I know it was short. I'm very sorry. I didn't have much time and I was tire.

**icanreadncount:** Yeah. Jack's such a sweet heart, isn't he? Aw! Everyone love Jacky Boy!


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